Of Masks and Chromes Read online

  Roberto Ricci

  Of Masks And Chromes (The Red Harlequin #1)

  UUID: e909bd7a-d6c3-11e8-a63b-17532927e555

  This ebook was created with StreetLib Write

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  Table of contents

  Prologue

  1. Death Of A Harlequin

  2. The Black Nation

  3. The Eldest

  4. The Eastern Gates

  5. Astor

  6. A New Mask

  7. The Cancerian

  8. Harvest Faire

  9. The Wheel Of Chance

  10. Revelations

  About the author

  Copyright

  Prologue

  No one knows how Harlequins came to be.

  The Collective Laws do not mention them.

  Nor are they described in the sacred books.

  And yet they exist.

  Some say they were the result of cross breeding between different colors of chromes.

  Others say they were sent by the gods to remind us how fortunate we chromes really are.

  All I know is that Harlequins can simulate any of our colors.

  They can talk like us, act like us and sometimes even fight like us.

  But they are not like us.

  When an animal has been slaughtered or an infant is found dead, a Harlequin is surely among us.

  That is why he must be found quickly.

  And put immediately to death.

  1. Death Of A Harlequin

  I had almost reached my fourteenth solstice when my father decided the time had come for me to witness my first execution. The execution of a Harlequin.

  “You must learn how to recognize a Harlequin when you see one,” he said.

  The thought of seeing a real live Harlequin in the flesh frightened and excited me so much that when he came to wake me that cold and sunless morning, I was already dressed and ready. I had barely slept at all.

  A few moments later, with our cloaks wrapped around us and fortified by hot herbal broth to ward off the cold, we paused by the front door to put our masks on. As we did, my father cast me a glance up and down and smiled.

  “I’m sure you get taller with every sunrise, Asheva.”

  “And more like you,” said my mother.

  She had slipped quietly out from her bedroom. I sensed it was important to her that she see me before I left; like she knew my eyes were about to be opened to the brutal reality of the world and she wanted to prepare me for it in whatever small way she could, even if that meant placing my mask over my face herself, fixing it straight and brushing my hair back over it.

  “That’s a good thing, isn’t it?” said my father with a wry smile at her.

  “Yes,” she said, her eyes fixed on my blood-red, crimson mask of death with its black lips and tears, made for me by her own mother. “It is.” There was trepidation and unease in her voice which my father ignored; he may not have liked the idea of what lay ahead of us any more than she did, but he knew that it had to be done.

  He put his own simple black and white mask on, glancing in to the mirror to adjust it. There was might and strength in every part of him, from his height, to the power of his shoulders, the broadness of his back and even the thickness of his hands and fingers which settled his mask in place with delicate dexterity. He was our guide and protector; strong, fair, brave and indestructible. He was a hero, a veteran of wars against both the Blue Chromes and the Red. It is hard to describe the intense swell of pride that being his son gave me. From as early as I could remember, the only thing I wanted in life was to be like him. With a final hug each for my mother, we stepped out in to the chilly, gloomy dawn.

  Side by side, my father and I wound our way down the steep, cobbled streets of Axyum, our great and ancient city. Though it was early, the streets were crowded with our fellow Black Chromes. With our long, wool cloaks brushing the ground around our legs as we went, we must have looked like a procession of ungainly, flightless crows. Every step intensified the burning sense of unease in my stomach; the tug of war between terror and excitement. By the time we joined the large crowd gathered in Victory Square, under the watchful glare of statues and monuments to fallen heroes of past Chrome wars, a chill wind had had begun to whip in from the east and I could feel the first light drops of rain starting to fall.

  At the center of the square stood the gallows pole. Sturdy, splintered and blood-stained; it was a forbidding portent of what was to come. Around the edges of the square were tribune stands; pulpitums which had been erected for dignitaries to watch the execution from in prominence. They were all filled with black chromes apart from one on which a clutch of figures dressed variously in shades of white, violet, yellow and blue stood; it was impossible for your gaze not to be drawn towards them.

  I turned to my father.

  “Why are they here?”

  “Dignitaries from other Territories are always invited to witness the execution of a Harlequin,” he replied. “They are as much their enemies as ours.”

  There were four of them. One was in a white mantle but his mask and belt marked him out as the emissary of the Violets; there were two dressed in blue velvet while the fourth, in a rich saffron cloak of calfskin with a golden mask represented the Yellows. I sensed an unease about them, confined in their small stand, surrounded by a sea of somber, simple Blacks.

  “Where are the Orange and the Red?” I asked my father.

  He took a moment to look carefully at them all before replying.

  “I don’t know.”

  He was disturbed. Clearly for him, the absence of two other colors was significant and not a good sign; especially in the case of the Reds, our greatest enemies and against whom we had fought so many wars over the centuries. I was about to ask him to tell me more. But as I did, a great roar went up, starting from the opposite side of the square and then spreading over towards us. The execution procession had arrived.

  I could see two black flags bob and weave their way towards the gallows pole. Everyone around us pressed in close and strained for the best view. I felt a slight panic rise in my chest at the prospect of what I was about to witness and as bodies moved ever more tightly together and began to pin me in. As tight, guttural cries of anger rose around me and all eyes were directed towards the flags, I was pretty certain no one would notice if I was crushed or even dragged under their feet. I reached out for my father’s arm to steady myself. He saw the fear in my eyes.

  “Be calm,” he shouted, above the rising din. “No matter what happens. Understand?”

  I nodded and did my best to show him I wasn’t scared. Nothing frightened me more than the idea of disappointing him.

  The flags were accompanied by the tattoo of drums. Their rhythmic cadence was so powerful they vibrated deep in my chest like an invading heartbeat. Within moments, the loud murmur and commotion of voices died away and a hush fell across the crowd. When the drums stopped a moment or so after that, the silence that engulfed the square was so profound and intense it was as if the gods themselves had cast a muted spell upon the city.

  I can’t remember how long it lasted for. It felt like hours, but might only have been as long as three or four beats of the heart. What I will never forget is the way it was shattered by a piercing shriek of terror as a figure appeared above the crowd.

  There was the Harlequin.

  He was borne on a wooden platform, carried on the shoulders of several guards. Strapped to a ladder, his hands were bound behind his back. As he jerked and lurched across the square towards us, I could see a swine’s head had been placed on top of his own, its skin stretched tight around his skull and down over his forehead. The pig’s blood trickled and flowed down the Harlequin’s face to mingle with his own which oozed from cuts all around his eyes and gashes in his cheeks where he had been beaten. He was dressed in robes of many colors, the like I had never before seen. Garish, sickly patches of red, yellow, green and blue had been stitched together in jarring, disturbing patterns. It was an abominable sight.

  The Harlequin cried out again; a lamenting wail of fear. This time it was answered by a full-blown roar of rage and vitriol from the crowd; starting amongst a small number near where he passed and then spreading out as a feverish hatred gripped the square. I turned to my father again.

  “Could he be the Red Harlequin?” I whispered in his ear.

  There was no more reviled and feared figure in all of the territories. Said to be the leader and master of all Harlequins, the very mention of him struck terror in to us when we were young. Legends and stories about him abounded, many of them made up to scare us, but they stuck in the mind nonetheless; for a long time, I truly believed that he had turned red after drinking the blood of children. Whether or not that was true, one thing was beyond certain. He was real.

  My father didn’t reply. Like everyone else around us, his eyes were on the prisoner. I looked once more at the blood-soaked, grotesque figure. Though he was bound and secured, how could I be sure that he didn’t have the power to break free and kill us all?

  “What if he flies away?” I asked.

  “He won’t. He’s been strapped well. Be strong, Asheva.”

  I nodded and looked back at the Harlequin. He was getting ever closer and in a moment or so I would be able to see him more clearly. What I expected, I wasn’t sure. But as he neared the gallows, I was surprised to see a creature that looked no different than me and was only a few solstices older, barely twenty as far as I could guess. I rememb
er being struck by his exposed face. Chromes wear masks in public, regardless of their color; it is one of the Collective Laws. So the sharp contrast of crimson blood on his pale white face was perhaps the most shocking thing of all. To be gazed upon by so many eyes in such a state was an almost unfathomable humiliation. I felt intense embarrassment for him.

  He tilted his petrified eyes upwards, no doubt making one final, desperate plea to the gods to rescue him.

  As he did, the pig’s head fell off. The crowd laughed and jeered. I tried to join in, feeling it was my duty. But I couldn’t. I was unable to harden my heart towards him. Pity welled inside me.

  “How do you know he is a Harlequin?” I asked my father.

  “You’ll see in a moment,” he said.

  There was something in his voice which made me realize that he was as uneasy as I was about bearing witness to what was about to happen. Nonetheless, as he now raised his voice against the creature along with the rest of the crowd, it was filled with convincing enough disdain.

  The Harlequin began to shake violently. And as he did, I found it hard to imagine him as dangerous or clever. What sort of mischief could he have committed to deserve such an end? It took two guards to keep him still as a third looped the noose around his neck.

  They were set to push him from the ladder, when he cried out, his voice cutting through the insults and the venomous jeers.

  “Please! I beg of you for mercy. I am not a Harlequin!”

  And as he said it, I swear on all of the gods, he looked straight at me.

  His words echoed about the square for a moment or more before the guards wrested the ladder away from him and his body swung out over our heads in a wide arc. It jerked violently for what seemed like an eternity. I couldn’t look. I turned my head away, but my father reached out and clasping a large hand around the back of my skull turned it back again.

  “Watch,” he said.

  A mist of rainbow colors had formed beneath the swinging, twitching feet of the dead Harlequin. They swirled outwards and hung in the air for a few short moments, long enough for astonished gasps and murmurs to rise across the crowd. And then, as quickly as they had appeared, they vanished. A great cheer went up.

  “What was that? “I asked, though I suspected I knew the answer.

  Another Chrome to my right answered before my father could, his eyes wild with hatred and repugnance. “That was the filthy, evil creature’s aura, leaving its body!” he said. “And good riddance!” He bellowed again, so loudly it stung my ear, “good riddance!”

  I searched for any sense of relief or rejoicing inside myself at the ‘creature’s death, but I couldn’t find any. All I could see, seared in to my mind, were his eyes staring at me in the seconds before his death, like a cornered forest deer set to be slaughtered at the end of a hunt.

  The clouds broke above us and the rain began to fall in earnest. The crowd began to quickly disperse, few being bothered to stay and watch the body be cut down by the guards and tossed on to a cart to be wheeled away and later burnt. The show was over. There was now the humdrum business of the day to attend to. Chromes headed off in every direction, like a receding black tide, along alleys and roads leading away from Victory Square. Some made their way to the nearest taverns, eager to toast to hearts that still beat.

  My father and I returned home to my mother. She didn’t ask me how I felt. She didn’t have to. One look at me and she could tell very well.

  For the rest of that day and for several after, I focused on how glad I was to still be alive. I breathed deep the air, I ate well and appreciated every mouthful. I took care to soak up every detail around me, to live as if every hour might be my last. As I would fall in to my bed each night, I would thank the gods that I was not a Harlequin and pray fiercely that I might never encounter another one as long as I lived. Since that time, I have often wondered if those prayers were too much temptation for the gods.

  Safe to say they went unanswered.

  2. The Black Nation

  The next morning, I was awoken by the sound of proclamations in the streets. Messengers had been sent out across the city to instruct every citizen to gather in front of the Palace of the Elders by midmorning. The Eldest himself was going to address us.

  “Hurry! Put on your robes,” said my mother.

  Though I didn’t want to admit it, I was still shaken by the events of the day before. The idea of gathering in a crowd once more did not appeal to me.

  “Must we go?” I asked her.

  “Just do as your mother tells you,” snapped my father, irritably. He almost never raised his voice. Looking back, I wonder if he already knew then what this gathering was going to mean for our family.

  “Here, wear this,” my mother said, in a more soothing tone, casting father a small, reproachful glance. She handed me my black mask. A gift from my father, delicately carved from a thin sheet of onyx, to me it was more precious than gold and I only wore it on the most important occasions. Our black masks were to be used only for proclamation of a festivity, the death of an elder, or war. The next festivity was still far away in the calendar and no news of an elder’s death had reached our house. That left only one possibility. And if I had any doubts about it, the look in my father’s eyes put them to rest.

  By the time the three of us arrived at the palace, most of the city had already gathered. As we squeezed our way through the crowds, the tension was palpable and no one dared speak, not even to whisper to the chrome next to them. The Elders stood on the palace’s marble stairs. Unlike our sturdy wool black cloaks, their robes were made of finely spun silk and their black masks were finely decorated with gold ornaments. But even among such splendor, there was one mask that shined brightest; the mask of The Eldest – the most beautiful I had ever seen. Fashioned of black gold, Andahar had told me it was older than time, having been made by Lapis, the shepherd god and protector of our nation, as a gift to the very first Black eldest.

  Standing before us, with the elders lined solemnly behind him, the Eldest’s deep voice boomed out, commanding our attention. He measured his words carefully to make sure everyone understood the gravity of the situation.

  “Devout sons and daughters of the Black nation, the gods are listening!” he began, spreading his arms wide. “This morning, a herald of the Red chromes delivered to us a vile, treacherous message. A message we have been long expecting. They have declared war against us! Against the gods’ chosen, the most honorable and ancient nation of the chromes!”

  The response was immediate. Cries of outrage, anger and dismay went up all around us. It took the guards several moments to hush us so that the Eldest could continue.

  “My brothers and sisters, they want to invade the land given to us by our ancestors!’ he cried, his voice cracking with indignant fury. ‘They have already occupied part of the Eastern forest.”

  As the Eldest spoke, I felt a profound admiration for him. I had never seen his face, but like all of us Black chromes, my devotion to him was total and unquestioning. I knew that there was not a single chrome gathered around me who doubted that his wisdom, courage and strength would lead us to victory. His solemn voice echoed throughout the city. “The First Army will quickly be mustered. They will prepare to move in the direction of the Eastern forest.”

  The First Army consisted of our most experienced warriors, the primary line of defense in case of an attack. It also bought precious preparation time for the Second and Third Armies, made up of younger and lesser trained chromes. Having fought valiantly in two of the toughest wars our nation had ever endured, my father was a battle-scarred veteran of the First Army, a real warrior who had experienced first-hand the atrocities of combat; the loss of friends and the fear of death. He never spoke of it to me, other than to tell me that “in war there are no chrome winners. The only victor is Jaries, the god of war and vengeance, who yearns for blood to spill from every chrome, regardless of color. In the end, his thirst is always quenched.”